The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
by Taste of Cinnamon
Summary: Formerly entitled For Every Star, a series of one shots, each involving a different member of the Black family and a different take on their lives.
1. For Every Star

**Oct 14, 2005**

**I've had this idea brewing in my mind for a long time, but never put it to 'paper' until now. I'd considered using Draco Malfoy, but that would be a bit overdone. **

**Now that I think of it, I may consider doing a whole fic for just Regulus, but not anytime soon. So, happy reading. Reviews highly appreciated. **

**:Edit Mar 29, 2006**

**I'd forgotten all about this story when I was suddenly reminded of it by a kind reviewer, and so I reread it and altered it a bit. Thank you to JediWeasley:**

**---**

**For Every Star**

_(…There is a black hole)_

Regulus Black sat in the cold dark astronomy tower, the highest room in the castle. Maybe here he could finally escape from who he was, maybe here he would finally be able to look over his life and judge from above.

He wondered why everyone hated him, wondered why he was always the outcast, the shadow on the wall, seeing all but never a part of anything, drifting across the grounds; he wondered why there was never any mention of him except the occasional "I could've sworn I was being watched."

No one knew him, on the surface as well as deep inside. No one had ever bothered to try. But even then, they hated him. They had hated him before he had joined the Death Eaters, before they even met him. That's just the way it was. No one would give him a chance. That's just the way it had always been.

It was as if they could just take one look at him and know what he thought. It was as if they could just take one glance at him and know what he felt, who he was. Were they wrong? He didn't know. Maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn't worth the effort.

It wasn't his fault he was who he was or what he was. It wasn't his fault his only haven was within the ranks of the inner circle of the Dark Lord, that he felt no remorse when he made someone cry.

It wasn't his fault…was it?

He had been brought up to hate, brought up with anger and a dark passion hammered into his heart, etched in his brain, engraved in his soul. The first thing he remembered seeing as an infant was his father dressed in flowing black robes, fully hooded, menace written about his features. The first thing he had heard was Death. It was all he had ever known. All he'd ever know. How could he know any better?

His father used to whisper words of hatred to him, sometimes just dark nothings, phrases that didn't make sense but still managed to entwine his soul in darkness. Hate, anger, retribution. When his father's words actually formed coherent sentences, they would instruct him to detest anyone not like them, teaching him how to despise, to cause pain and anguish. "You were always my favourite," Father would say, "You were always the one I loved."

And yet, even his father hated him, Regulus knew. At times he wondered if his father preferred _Sirius_ to him, and that was saying something.

Everybody loved Sirius. Took one look at him and fell in love. There were girls who devoted themselves to his every whim, lived for the day he would spare them a glance. It was as if Sirius had taken all the goodness and beauty that was to be shared among the brothers, leaving Regulus a hollow shell, filled only with loathing and darkness.

It wasn't fair, it couldn't be. They even looked the same, the same shining black hair, piercing dark eyes, the same strong jaw, the same lean frame…but always Sirius was beautiful, and Regulus was not. People looked into Sirius' eyes and saw something wonderful, but when they looked into those of his brother, all they ever saw was depravity, the shallow end of the gene pool, the unspoken evilness of humankind.

Ever since they were babies, playing in the playground, mothers would shield their children from Regulus while cooing at the older brother, and ice cream salesmen would offer Sirius a free cone while Regulus pretended he didn't care if he didn't get one too. Why? Why not him?

Sirius had all the love, all the kindness, all the beauty, just because he was first-born. He'd left none for Regulus to claim, nothing for him to cling to.

Nothing but the darkness.

Regulus sighed, wondering where his brother was now. Even through the blackness of his heart, Regulus loved Sirius. That was the only corner of his heart that was still pure, still human—the part of his heart that loved his brother. He guarded Sirius from sadness, shielded him from pain. Maybe that was it. Maybe, from protecting Sirius, Regulus had absorbed all the evil that would have otherwise ensnared the older brother.

But even Sirius hated him. He'd always hated him, always pushed him aside, always refused his aid. So many times Regulus would stand with love in his eyes, hope in his features, pleading with his brother to look, just look at him in the eye, just once…only to have Sirius turn away. It was always his one great shame, having a brother in Slytherin, just as it was the Blacks' great shame to have a son in Gryffindor.

Balance. That's all it was. Retribution. If one son was blessed with beauty, the other was marked with darkness. It was always that way. For every star there had to be a black hole, a desert for every ocean, a nightmare to every dream.

That was why he had become a Death Eater. Not only because he was made for it, but because the only place he had ever felt human was within their ranks. It was the only place he could sink into himself and not feel out of place. His fellow Death Eaters were the only ones who didn't judge him. They were the only ones who accepted him wordlessly as one of them and didn't hate him for who he was. They hated him for other reasons, and he himself despised each and every one of them, but then again they hated everything; they were Death Eaters, it was their duty.

It was where he truly belonged.

Regulus gazed up into the heavens, scanning the sky for his namesake, the brightest star in the constellation Leo, the lion. King. That's what his name meant. That's what his parents had intended, for him to be a king, looked up upon, feared and respected by all. Where they had failed with Sirius, they'd said, they would succeed with Regulus.

How ironic. Regulus was no king, and it was beginning to become clear that he never would be.

He'd always be hated, always be forgotten. When he died, there would be no one to sweep his grave, no one to visit every third Sunday of every month, no one to cry or to place flowers on his tomb. They'd give him a ceremony, they'd grant him that much, but there'd be no tears shed, and no one would read him an eulogy.

Treasured Son and Beloved Brother. That's what they'd write on his tombstone, and Regulus could just picture the carver scoffing at the insincerity. He'd be forgotten, or if he was lucky, remembered with disgust. That was the life he had always led. He'd learned to live with it.

But that didn't mean he wasn't bitter.

(end)


	2. The Perfect Black

**Apr 4, 2006**

**A/N:**

**So I was looking over my stories the other day when I notice that this one was in a C2 community thing that was dedicated to the Black family, etc, and I was inspired to do a similar chapter on Narcissa Malfoy (formerly Narcissa Black). **

**I look forward to doing another one on Bellatrix someday maybe, if ever I decide how to portray her. In the mean time, have fun with this one.**

**Disclaimer: Just as with the previous fic, I do not necessarily agree with what I'm writing. In other words, I don't necessarily think that Narcissa is…well, how this chapters characterizes her as. To be truthful, I'm not exactly sure how I feel towards her. I just thought it was an interesting take on her person. **

**--- **

**The Perfect Black**

_A row of small songbirds, various colors, perched in their respective cages. Their big black eyes glazed and wide with fear, each one trembling, feathers pressed closed to their bodies. Almost as if they were aware of the palpable loom of death that hung over them._

Narcissa Malfoy executed a series of sharp wand movements and sent a barrage of spells flying through the air, each one aimed toward a wire cage. A moment later, seven small _thumps _were heard as seven small feathered bodes fell to the ground lifeless.

Narcissa slid her silvery wand into the pocket of her robes and lifted a glass of blood red wine to her lips. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and swallowed, allowing a small gust of wind to play about her blond tresses. Her eyes, a cool grey-blue, scanned the cages, then the many small grave markings just beyond them. They were surprisingly sad, and not without reason.

Her husband, Lucius, now in Azkaban facing who knows how many horrors. Her son, Draco, miles away heading toward perhaps the same fate. It was enough to drive any woman to tears, but not Narcissa. Narcissa was strong, she was brave. Narcissa was a Black—proud, dignified…Narcissa didn't cry. It just wasn't in her nature, she had made sure of it.

A week after her eighth birthday, Narcissa's white cat had run away from her into a tree, and no matter how she tried to coax it down, it wouldn't budge. Sobbing, she had dashed to her father, who had taken one look at the tears in her eyes and grabbed the switch hanging on the peg by the door.

When he had finished with her, her father stood her across from him, looked her in the eyes, and said the words that she would never forget.

"Dry those tears, Narcissa, they are unseemly for a Black. We are a line of kings, and we never cry. If you want to be of this family, then you will remember this. We rage, we avenge, we wreak havoc and we make the lives of those who have hurt us miserable, but we never cry like the weak. Never."

And, wiping her tears on the hem of her dress, Narcissa had stumbled outside again, where she sat, bruised and sore, contemplating. She remembered her father's dark eyes, blazing with anger, with disappointment in her, and she felt the weight of her ancestry upon her shoulders. After a long silence which was uncharacteristic for a child her age, she had summoned her servant to her.

"Get that cat down from that tree," she had told the submissive house elf, "and have it killed."

After that she changed from a vivacious rosy girl to a cold, dark teen, a proud and dignified pure blood, just as her father had intended. When she entered Hogwarts for her first year, the professors often commented on her dark grace, but they never allotted her much attention because by then, it seemed, they were used to the Blacks.

Shortly after her second year Narcissa mastered the art of showing no emotion. She learned to crush and to kill any kind feelings from surfacing within her, and she promised herself that she would never again let a single tear fall.

If the foolish Muggle healers could be believed, tears were Man's way of easing pain and sorrow, of cleansing and replenishing. Narcissa, however, found other ways to express her grief.

First it had been spiders, the little black leggy things that made their homes in the dark corners and spun their webs of silver silk. When, at thirteen her first boyfriend gave up on their relationship, her cool eyes had flashed and with a sweep of her robes, she had descended the staircase into the dungeons.

She sat on a stone block for hours in sorrow before spotting the small critter perched on a cobweb suspended between two suits of armor. She had smiled, a dark smile, and reached for her wand. When it lay dead before her, her pain had eased and she was restored. She felt no remorse.

When her best friend fell victim to a vampire's bite and had to be taken away, Narcissa moved on to frogs, taking comfort if not pleasure in terminating each one. She watched their long legs go limp and cease movement, and each fleeing soul took with it some of her sadness.

When her father died during her second year at Hogwarts, Narcissa stood silently in her robes of black and grieved straight-faced. Her father had taught her everything: how to be proud, how to evoke fear, how to not show any emotion but scorn, anger, and dark amusement, and she had loved him in her own way. That night three mice sacrificed their lives for her.

When she was nineteen she was married to one Lucius Malfoy. He was the only suitable husband for her, the only man who didn't cringe at her piercing gaze. The only one she had ever cared for. The night of their wedding, she had smiled at her new groom, the closest sign of genuine happiness she had shown in months, and he had smiled back at her, and they knew that they were in love, even though neither could find the nerve to say it.

Her son, Draco, was born to her at twenty five. She had looked down into the bundle of robes the midwife had placed into her arms, and for the first time in many years, she was moved. For an instant, one moment, Narcissa had allowed a flash of emotion to creep into her eyes; a moment later, her mask of dignity was back in place as she handed little Draco back to the nurse to feed.

And a year ago, Narcissa's cousin was murdered at the hand of her own sister. When the news reached her that Sirius Black was among the dead, Narcissa had had to kill a dozen moles just to ease her pain. Sirius, although the scum of their line, although no better than a Mudblood, had been her cousin, and she had always admired him with that one sliver of her heart that still allowed her to.

He had been proud in a different way, brave in a different way, so handsome, perfect, and _happy_. When the sorting hat has placed him into Gryffindor many years ago, Narcissa had been shocked almost out of her carefully arranged façade.

How dare he question his heritage, how dare he go against his ancestry, that ancient and noble house that had given him his name? And so Narcissa had watched him carefully for signs of falling apart, waited silently for him to realize, the hard way, the dangers of going against the grain, and when that never happened, a part of her mind had begun to question, to _doubt_ her own actions. And she had hated him for it. But not really.

While her mind conceded that Sirius was a failure, a disappointment, Narcissa couldn't help but admire him for not being the standard Black. Sometimes she wished she could go to Sirius and ask him. Ask him why he chose to go the way he did, ask him why he couldn't just accept who he was. She told herself she stayed away because she didn't want to be associated with the filthy blood traitor, but deep in her soul she knew the truth. She feared him; she was terrified of Sirius because he was the one that had almost loosened the carefully arranged blocks of her life. And she couldn't let that happen, because she was perfect and had worked so hard to achieve that perfection.

Perfect. The perfect Black, the perfect Malfoy. She hid her emotions so well that no one would ever thing of her as anything _but_ a Malfoy or a Black. She was so immensely proud of having achieved it that sometimes she wanted to raise her arms to the sky and shout her joy. But of course she couldn't do that either.

When she'd learned that Lucius had been caught by the Aurors, she had remained calm. Even when her son showed signs of harboring the Dark Mark that she so feared, Narcissa used her carefully cultivated control to suppress her feelings, but she knew she couldn't do so for long.

The moment she felt her grief about to overwhelm her again, she'd had her servant bring to her seven small birds that had been captured the day she'd found out. She had held each one in her palm carefully, her eyes almost caring, then set them in their cages and removed her wand from the pocket of her robes.

And now they lay dead.

Narcissa rose in one fluid motion and strolled over to the cages, examining each one and drawing the corners of her mouth down into a frown. Useless. These birds had been useless.

As the years passed she had noticed it, and she didn't know if it was because her sorrows had grown from childish pettiness to full fledged grief, but it didn't particularly matter. The fact remained that as she grew older, her method no longer worked as well as it used to.

Slowly, gradually, killing began to lose its effect on her. She no longer felt calm when she heard the small thud of bodies falling to the ground. Seven. She had killed seven. But she still felt anguish. She still longed for her husband's warm caresses, still ached to see her grown son, now so defiant, beside her. If anything, it had made her pain worse.

Why? Why did it no longer work? Why couldn't she escape like she used to? Why didn't killing soothe her like it had done for so many years? What was wrong? Had she finally reached her limits?

Narcissa pondered this for several moments, trying to keep the panic at bay. It was the birds, that had to be it. Tomorrow she'd send her servant to the countryside to bring her ten different creatures, bunnies perhaps. That would work. She was counting on it to work, desperate for it to work. She was too far gone to change now; she had nothing else to fall back upon.

It wasn't in her blood to show sorrow and so she expressed it in different ways. Narcissa didn't have to cry, no. She was a strong woman, a dangerous woman. There was no way in Hell she was about the risk having the carefully sculpted facets of her life come tumbling down haphazardly around her like poorly crafted sand castles.

Her husband was gone and her son was all but missing, but there was no way in Hell she would let this destroy her.

---

**A/N:**

**Having finished this, I realize that it didn't entirely come out the way I had intended for it to. It was incredibly difficult to express what my mind was saying in words.**

**Ah well. Leave a review or two if you're feeling generous (:**


	3. Breaking the Mold

**Apr 5, 2006**

**A/N:**

**I suddenly realized I'd forgotten all about Andromeda Black. Granted, her name only shows up like twice in the entire series, and she never really did anything important, but I thought I'd give it a go anyway. Her character was harder to develop…how'd I do?**

**--- **

**Breaking the Mold**

_Andromeda Tonks, Andromeda Tonks, Andromeda Tonks…_

It wasn't easy, being rebellious. It wasn't easy looking your mother, your father, your entire _world_ straight in the eye and saying "Sorry Mum, Sorry Dad…I'm going a different way." For Sirius it had been, but then again, everything always came easy to Sirius.

The Blacks never had family reunions like dirty, common people, but they kept in touch, and it was during one of these Dinners—they liked to call them—that Andromeda had met her cousin, really met him for the first time.

From the very beginning, Andromeda had been sure there was something different about her, and it had caused her no end of anguish. She'd seen her older sister Bellatrix descend into the darkness as was "awfully honorable of her", and she'd been on the receiving end of one of her younger sister Narcissa's piercing stares one too many times for comfort.

Andromeda had often wondered why she couldn't be what was expected of her as a Black. No matter how she tried, she never could understand what was it that made fitting in so hard. She had the blood, she had the features, she had everything that she needed…and yet something was still missing. Sometimes she gazed at herself in the mirror, wondering what was wrong with her; sometimes she even wondered if she wasn't a Black after all. She tried so hard, so unbelievably hard, but she couldn't, she couldn't, she _couldn't. _How she longed to be proud and defiant like Narcissa or at least cold and shadowy like Bellatrix, but she _couldn't_ and because of that she sorrowed.

She had been fourteen that year, the year everything changed, and Sirius had been eleven, and she recalled with fondness his easy step, his crooked debonair smile. She had adored the way he tossed his head back to laugh—though never in his mother's presence—and the way his dark eyes actually showed a degree of warmth that was unheard of for a Black.

When she had seen Sirius, Andromeda had realized that she should embrace her difference and cast of the cloak of conformity. She had decided right then and there, that she did not want to be a Black any longer. She wanted to be human; she wanted to laugh, to love, to be able to jump up and down in excitement when she was happy. And she'd had enough.

But it wasn't as simple as a flick of the wand, a muttering of a spell. Andromeda had had to work at it. Many times she'd felt the tug of her ancestry on her soul, but she'd resisted each time, with varying degrees of success. Each time she felt herself about to be pulled into what she liked to call "the far end" she had only to look to Sirius to remind herself where she truly wanted to be.

Ted had had a lot to do with that, as well. She'd met him during the summer of her sixth year, and she'd been swept head over heels into love with his charm, his good humor, and the fact that he hadn't been tainted by the darkness that was looming over the wizarding world. By that time, Andromeda had been exposed to the depravity of their spectrum, witnessed the evil and corruption that plagued them, and she had sworn that she would one day escape from it all. She didn't want to have to live like that, and if she'd have to give up her skills at magic, it was a sacrifice she would have gladly made.

Escape, freedom. It was what she desired, and it was the Blacks' notorious determination—the only benefit, it seemed, of being Andromeda Black—that caused her to believe she could do anything she wanted, if only she tried.

Narcissa, she remembered, had raged and threatened. She had cursed, tossed her head, and employed all her skills of persuasion to try to win Andromeda back. But Bellatrix…Bellatrix was just the opposite. When Andromeda began to show the first signs of conversion, Bellatrix had just smiled, a cold, calculating smile, almost as if it were no news to her. And Andromeda has strayed far from her, fearing that some of her darkness would seep into her own soul, and she couldn't afford for that, not after everything.

Her wedding day was the single most disastrous and beautiful day of her life. Ted in a simple clean cut black dressing gown (he was looking a little out of place as a Muggle but was trying his hardest), herself donning robes of a deep amethyst, ready to say their vows, when the ceremony was disturbed by her mother, her father, and Narcissa, come to humiliate and bring her away.

There, in front of her friends and loved ones, Mother and Father had almost destroyed their union, and Andromeda had steeled her resolve, summoned up her courage, and outlasted their temper. When they had disapparated, Narcissa was left, and she tried a different approach.

"Ann," she said in her cold clear voice, "Don't do this Ann. Mother and Father love you. I love you. This man, this…_Muggle_"—she indicated Ted with a toss of her head—"he knows nothing of our world, how can he be the one for you? Leave him now and I'll help you to win back Father's favor. We'll find you a respectable groom, and no one will ever have to mention this incident."

"I'm sorry Narcissa, little sister," Andromeda had replied, "I can't be like you. I can't live like you do. I need love, Narcissa, I need happiness. Without it I am nothing."

And she had reached out and embraced her sister. The second before Narcissa pushed her away, Andromeda had been sure she'd felt her hug back, if only for a fleeting moment. When they were face to face again, Narcissa's mask of haughtiness was back in place, but if Andromeda looked closely enough, she was sure her sister's eyes looked softer and brighter than their usual iciness.

Narcissa had tossed her blond head with ease. "So be it," she said without a hint of sorrow, "If that's the path you take, then I renounce you. You are no longer my sister, Andromeda."

And she had disappeared. But Andromeda hadn't minded, because in that moment after their embrace, she had managed to wrench a tiny silver of emotion from her sister's mask of dignity, and to her that meant the world.

And so the wedding had commenced. The moment she felt Ted's warm hands grasp her own, she felt like weeping in joy; she was no longer a Black. Andromeda Tonks! How wonderful the name sounded. Her and Ted's wedding culminated in a series of breathtaking vows, and afterward she was sure she had made a great achievement.

When her daughter Nymphadora was born to her, Andromeda took care to _not_ raise her the way she had been raised. She showed her little Metamorphmagus love and compassion, and taught her not to despise her heritage, to accept but not embrace it.

Of course, by that time Narcissa had completely disowned her, declared that she would have nothing to do with her, and Bellatrix was still Bellatrix. Sometimes she regretted this isolation; sometimes she wished she could go to her sisters when she was feeling lonely or in need of someone to listen, but she had always known that wasn't possible, and she had grown more or less accustomed to it.

When Sirius died Andromeda had felt that her world was coming apart. He had been her hope, her inspiration, and she had loved him as she would a brother. As the second most important man in her life, Sirius had helped to make her who she was. And now that she was for the most part successful, he had…died?

And Bellatrix had killed him. If it had been in her nature, Andromeda would have set the world aflame to avenge her cousin. Instead she descended into sorrow, tearing at her hair and weeping with her entire being.

So she burrowed even further into the world she had created for herself, the world that evil couldn't blemish, that magic couldn't touch. She cooked the Muggle way, without a wand, she grew herbs without the aid of magical serums, and she was happy. Sometimes she would pull out her old wand and gaze at it lovingly, remembering who she once was and the friends she had made in that beautiful turreted castle upon a lake. Sometimes she felt herself wishing she could return there, a blossoming witch surrounded by her fellows, but she had a new life now, and she was happy.

Whenever she was alone she would grab a pen, and, like a foolish schoolgirl, write her name over and over again—in block letters, calligraphy, hearts and flowers, anything and everything.

_Andromeda Tonks. Andromeda Tonks. Andromeda Tonks._

She was released, free. And she wasn't going back. Not for anything.

---

**A/N:**

**I realize I'm not pulling in many reviews with this series (and I can understand why), but that doesn't bother me as much as I would have expected it to. More than anything, these one shots are for my own pleasure; they're gratifying and I love to do them. **

**Bellatrix will be the last installment (unless I decide to do Sirius, which probably wont happen), and I'm looking forward to writing her, although I'm still not quite sure how I'll do it.**


	4. Chasing Darkness

**Jun 19, 2006**

**A/N:**

**Sorry this took so long, but as I said in my profile, I had an insane amount of tests—APs, SATs, finals, etc. **

**This would (most likely) be the final chapter to this thing. Bellatrix Black. I admit, I had no idea where I was going with this, and I sort of decided to go a different way halfway through the fic. But oh well, I've put it off long enough. **

---

**Chasing the Darkness**

Bellatrix Black lounged in her cold cell, her heavy lidded eyes half closed as she peered languidly through her lashes at the dark chamber around her. Shadows drifted slowly across the stone floor, and outside the wind was picking up, intensifying to a howl that left most of her fellow prisoners shivering in fear. Bellatrix shifted and gave a small yawn, her pale lips parting to reveal sharp teeth.

It didn't bother her that she was in the wizard world's most secure prison, or that her sentence was for life. The dank blackness of her merciless prison bothered her even less. In a few hours, she knew, her master would come for her, releasing her once again into the world.

She was ready.

Even here among her fellow Death Eaters all awaiting release, Bellatrix was alone. She scoffed at their pathetic antics, their _shallow_ appreciation of the Dark Arts. They knew nothing, the simple fools that they were. Bellatrix was so much greater.

"Why don't you smile, Bella?" her sister Narcissa would frequently ask of her, tossing her sheet of long blond hair, while even her parents shied away from her, as if fearing the cloud that hovered over her would envelop them as well. Bellatrix wasn't deaf; she could hear what people whispered about her when she passed. She wasn't blind; she could see the glances they cast her way, half fearful, half pitying.

"That girl," they would say when they thought she couldn't hear, "That girl has forsaken herself. She has given her soul in to hate."

But they were wrong. Bellatrix had not forsaken herself. The coldness in her pitch black eyes wasn't of hate. She held scorn for those that were her victims, but she never hate. Bellatrix did not hate. Bellatrix loved. She loved with the blinding passion humans were capable of showing; reveled in the joyous waves of her joy. She was _in _love.

Not with any man, not with her husband, not even with her master who had taught her and accepted her. No…Bellatrix was in love with the darkness, the cold, black shadows that to her surpassed all the beauty of the world. She longed, more than anything, for those tendrils of night to surround her, embrace her, and wrap in such bliss that nothing else in the world would matter.

The men and women that served as her comerades, her fellow revelers in the Dark Arts were too naieve to appreciate the simple pleasure of their work. Too frequently they allowed hate to permeate their souls, and killing and terrorizing became mundane jobs, done only to please the Dark Lord and quench their own thirst for bloodshed. Behind their masks were men and women; humans only questing for relief.

But Bellatrix knew better. Her practice was not a chore, nor even a task. It was a dance. Perfection. Beautifully fluid in it's movements and ending in an soul-shattering climax. She shuddered in pleasure whenever her spells connected with another, trembling almost uncontrollably when it was over. It was her world; it was all she knew, all she had ever cared for.

She had everything she had ever wanted, all the power, all the potential, _everything_…except one.

Shadows.

That was the very first thing Bellatrix saw, opening her dark eyes for the first time, her small, infant arms waving back and forth as she lay cradled in her mother's arms. She lay there, entranced by the dark shadows that played about the ground before her, just out of her reach. For a moment, that was all she knew. She had no way to know that they were just the relics of the tree branches swaying in the wind outside, and of birds soaring across the sky. All she saw were the enigmatic darks shapes playing a game of chase, or perhaps dancing for her.

All her life they eluded her, these beings that were almost alive in aspect. Every time she reached out a hand to grab at them she'd come up with a handful of air, of nothing, and she'd wish with all her heart that she could touch them, just once.

As she matured her relatives would often comment on how unchild-like she seemed as she sat for hours watching as the shadows chased each other across the walls, the trees, the ground, everywhere. They had always intrigued her, since the day of her birth, and through her obsession she came to live in a world of shadows.

If she could grow wings that would allow her to capture one of those enchanted enigmas at the cost of her life, she would gladly take the opportunity.

It was why she loved the darkness, because it was the darkness that gave birth to the shadows. One day, she vowed, she would capture one of the blessed beings and then she would be complete, whole. Until then, every murder, every joyous orgasmic encounter with death would bring her one step closer.

Some called her mentally insane. Some of the more blunt ones ventured to call her crazy, hallucinating, a lunatic. And perhaps she was.

But she enjoyed every moment of it.

---

**A/N**

**Those of you more perceptive readers will recognize where I suddenly veered off course, and may be aware that I started slightly hinting at insanity for Bellatrix. Meaning that I portrayed her as being slightly insane. As in bordering on insanity. God, I have bad grammer. **

**Review if you want. I hope you enjoyed the fic. **


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